


Letters from Home

by heckofabecca



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Depression, F/M, Illustrated, Multimedia, support systems go a long way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: While visiting Minas Tirith alone a year after her wedding, Lothíriel receives a letter from her husband.A story about homes both old and new.





	1. "Éomer King to Lothíriel, his excellent and honorable wife"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first chapter of this story after the finished artwork below, and I felt like I couldn't stop there. Cue a multi-chapter fic!
> 
> Warning: this is one of my least cheerful stories, but it's not all doom and gloom.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155765884@N08/39713502552/in/dateposted-public/)

  _l-r Queen Arwen of the Reunited Kingdom, Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, Lady Éowyn of Ithilien_

_. ._

“My lady, a letter from King Éomer.”

With a glance to Arwen and Éowyn, sitting together on the opposite couch, Lothíriel accepted the letter from the hovering page. His task complete, the man bowed and left, closing Arwen’s parlor door with a gentle click.

“Don’t mind us,” Éowyn said. “If my brother has bestirred himself enough to write, it must be worth reading.” She turned to Arwen, whose gray eyes lingered an extra moment on Lothíriel. The two immersed themselves in a hushed conversation that Lothíriel blocked out.

What did Éomer have to say? Her husband was not a brilliant correspondent.

Lothíriel slid her pocket knife back and forth between the green wax seal and the parchment. She’d always had a knack for opening letters without cracking the seal. During her first (and only) ill-fated flirtation at fifteen, she’d opened her admirer’s letters, penned a reply inside, and sent them back with every appearance of being unread. Her father found out about that soon enough, though, and put a stop to it. But even now, as a married woman and queen, she kept up the habit of keeping seals intact. She had a box of unbroken seals at Meduseld.

Minas Tirith was another matter. After only a bit of wheedling, Éomer had acquiesced to her request to visit Gondor for a time. Since her arrival in the White City, he had written diligently. His letters, always brief and to the point, came once a week with the regular courier. _Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence_ and _Lord Erkenbrand has come from the Hornburg_ and _the sun came out after four days of mist and rain_.

But this letter had come at an odd time. Perhaps some other business had come up. It happened every so often—Éomer dispatched a special messenger to King Elessar perhaps once a month, and her being in Minas Tirith, it would be no great trial for him to pen her a quick missive.

The seal finally popped away from the parchment. Éowyn and Arwen glanced over; Lothíriel raised her eyebrows at them. They grinned apologetically and resumed their conversation.

Lothíriel sighed and finally opened her letter.

> _Éomer King to Lothíriel, his excellent and honorable wife—his greeting and fondest wishes._
> 
> _Lord Erkenbrand returned to the Hornburg with a dwarven surveyor sent with compliments and gifts from Erebor. Gimli’s interest in the Glittering Caves appears unabated. On that same day, Cousin Sefa plighted her troth to Eofor of the Eastfold, grandson of my great-uncle Cearl. They wish to wed in Meduseld. Lord Aldor of the Fenmark has submitted a proposal for improving the road through the Firien Wood. The council has promised to bring it to table by the end of the month._
> 
> _The pruning of the young apple trees in the royal orchards is completed. Head Gardener assures me that the older trees are in good form. You may expect a heap of apple hand pies come autumn._
> 
> _Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence._
> 
> _Your visit to your former home having lasted now some four weeks, I bid you return to your post by my side at Meduseld in Edoras. The messenger I have sent this letter by waits upon you to come back to Rohan. I anticipate your arriving before Sunstede¹._
> 
> _Farewell._
> 
> _(Edoras, 2 May, F.A. 1.)_

Lothíriel stared down at her husband’s words. She blinked. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed and set her jaw. She did not dare look up past the letter to Arwen and Éowyn, whose conversation has trickled to a close. Her husband’s words she could observe without crying, but to see pity in her friends’ faces…

Why did she have to be so affected? This letter could not have come much later. She’d been so busy enjoying her time in Gondor—visiting with her family, who had come from Dol Amroth; her former queen, for whom she’d been a lady-in-waiting before her marriage; her cousin Faramir and Éowyn, her sister by marriage—that she’d pushed all thought of her inevitable return to Rohan from her mind. But all her enjoyment of the last few weeks was nothing now that Éomer had ordered her to return to Edoras.

It was past time, really. King Elessar had remarked upon the length of her stay only last night. Yet despite the sense of the summons, her husband’s letter was a punch in the gut.

The couch dipped to her left. Lothíriel flinched, but it was only Éowyn, who leaned against the back of the couch to read over Lothíriel’s shoulder. Arwen sat gingerly on Lothíriel’s other side. Lothíriel felt Arwen’s eyes on her face—thank goodness that at least one of them had the decency not to read a private letter. Not that Éomer had written anything unfit for Éowyn’s eyes.

After a minute, Éowyn sat back with a sigh. She always had read fast, Lothíriel thought sourly.

“Well! I am happy for my cousins,” Éowyn said. “Two of my cousins—on different sides—are to be married,” she told Arwen. “A good match, I think. They were always fond, the few times they met.”

“Hm,” Arwen said.

Lothíriel glanced at Arwen under her lashes. Arwen was still staring at her, and Lothíriel flushed and thrust Éomer’s letter at her former queen. “Here,” she blurted. “There is nothing much.”

Arwen quirked her brow but accepted the letter. She read slowly, carefully, then folded the letter and returned it to Lothíriel.

“So you are to leave us, Lothíriel,” Arwen murmured. She toyed with her necklace. “I am sorry for it. I was glad when Éomer sent you to visit. I have daily felt the benefit of your company. I am sure _he_ has felt your absence keenly.”

Lothíriel barely contained a snort. _Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence_ , he had written in every letter. Éomer was no more bereft by her absence than his hall.

“Are you fond of apple pies, Lothíriel?” Arwen continued.

“Ah—I suppose so.” Lothíriel ran the seam of her letter between her fingers. The green wax seal had a horse stamped into it, the same horse that adorned Rohan’s banners. The king’s seal. “They’re warm and filling on a cold day. They’re sold at market in the autumn.” Apple hand pies were good, one of her favorite things to eat in Rohan. They were almost as good as the lemon cream pies at home. She was surprised that Éomer remembered she liked them. She’d only eaten them a few times in his presence—far more often when visiting the markets herself.

“It’s only sensible that he should want you home,” Éowyn broke in. She crossed her arms. “You’re his wife! You should be together for Sunstede.” Her pale cheeks tinged pink, but she met Lothíriel’s eyes boldly.

Lothíriel’s blush threatened to spread up to her hairline. She knew as well as Éowyn that Sunstede was the favored season for conceiving in Rohan. Babies conceived at midsummer were born near Modraniht, and babies born on Modraniht were considered lucky. Éowyn’s son Elboron had been born around Modraniht last year, the same day, it turned out, as Lothíriel and Éomer’s wedding. Éomer had bemoaned his sister’s absence, but Lothíriel had pointed out that no woman heavy with child—or with a newborn—should have to suffer the three hundred miles each way.

And though Lothíriel had been married over a year, no sign of pregnancy had come. She had almost cried when her courses had come two weeks past, but like now, no tears had come. Her next letter to Éomer had been even more terse than usual, though his retained the same plain-speaking cadences as ever.

Arwen coughed lightly, breaking through Lothíriel’s morose thoughts with her usual grace.

“At any rate,” said the queen of Gondor, folding her white hands in her lap. “wherever she is from, the queen of Rohan belongs in the Golden Hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted on Tumblr.
> 
> Éomer's letter to Lothíriel is inspired by medieval letters; specifically, by a letter written in 1098 from Stephen, Count of Blois and Chartres to his wife, Adele, during the 1st Crusade. There's an excellent bunch of medieval letters and missives available from DragonBear History that I highly recommend! So different from what we're used to. 
> 
>  
> 
> ¹ Sunstede: June 25. Rohirric Midsummer festival. Roughly translates to “sun standing still.” (My own invention :3) Modraniht in Anglo-Saxon times was celebrated the eve of Yule, but I adapted it as Rohan's springtime festival during the spring equinox, roughly nine months after midsummer. I'm happy to give more info if anyone's interested in my headcanons!


	2. A Long Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, it’s a shame to lose you, but you have been here a long time.” Faramir linked his hands together behind his back and began a circuit of the promontory. Lothíriel shifted Elboron on her hip and sighed.
> 
> “Arwen said much the same. It didn’t seem like a long time until today.”
> 
> “No?” Faramir glanced at her sharply. “Four weeks away from your husband did not seem a long time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much though I had hoped to include a letter in every chapter, it's not quite feasible. Oh well XD Thanks to everyone who left comments or kudos. As always, I appreciate your thoughts!
> 
> Take care; this chapter is pretty morose.

Satisfied with her direction of the packing, Lothíriel left the servants to their work and made her way outside. As a foreign queen, she’d been given rooms in the King’s House with rooms overlooking the White Tree. All in all, a far cry from her childhood room at her father’s palazzo on the Sixth Level, where all she could see was the courtyard.

Though it was past four o’clock, the sun still shone brightly. Thick white clouds dotted the sky, and a light breeze—almost a constant this high in the city—toyed with Lothíriel’s hair and skirts. She made her way to the far promontory to look east over the Pelennor Fields. There was the Anduin, weaving like a ribbon through the plains, and to the south the Harlond Docks. She couldn’t make it out, but a Swan-ship of Dol Amroth was harbored there, waiting to bring her father home. Had things been different, she might have gone home with him.

Lothíriel sighed and glanced away. The lawn about the White Tree was fresh and green and neatly shorn, totally unlike the wild yellow grasses that grew about Edoras. A pang twisted her heart. This was her last afternoon in Minas Tirith.

“Cousin!”

Lothíriel smiled despite herself. She spun around; Faramir, holding Elboron, approached with long strides.

“Mae govannen, Faramir! Hello, sweetie,” she cooed to her nephew. Elboron reached out his thin arms to her, and she happily took the one-year old from her cousin. “How are you, Faramir?”

“Very well, though saddened to hear you’re leaving,” Faramir said. He patted down his long black hair, tousled from his son’s tugging. “When do you go?”

Lothíriel bit back a grimace. “If all goes well, tomorrow morning.”

In truth, there was nothing to delay her. King Elessar’s astronomers predicted dry weather for at least another week, and being Elven-trained, they were rarely mistaken. No unexpected thunderstorms—Lothíriel was bound to leave tomorrow.

“Well, it’s a shame to lose you, but you have been here a long time.” Faramir linked his hands together behind his back and began a circuit of the promontory. Lothíriel shifted Elboron on her hip and sighed.

“Arwen said much the same. It didn’t seem like a long time until today.”

“No?” Faramir glanced at her sharply. “Four weeks away from your husband did not seem a long time? I would be miserable.”

Lothíriel grit her teeth and freed some of her hair from Elboron’s fist. “It is not the same, Faramir. You know it is not the same. I like Éomer—he is a good man, and kind—but you cannot think that all couples have _your_ perfect happiness.”

“There’s no such thing as perfect happiness. Rest assured Éowyn and I have our troubles. But I had hoped—well, it’s no matter. If you have mutual respect, perhaps that is enough.”

“There’s more than respect, Faramir,” Lothíriel protested, cheeks warm. She adjusted Elboron’s tunic rather than meet Faramir’s eye. “We are fond of each other, or so it seems to me. And my father had it right. Éomer is among the best men he knows. But however long I’m there, Rohan does not feel like home. Not like Gondor. Coming back here was like…” She paused and searched for a comparison. “It was like finding an old dress you love, and slipping back in.”

“It’s crawling back into shed skin, Lothíriel,” Faramir warned. His eyes bore into hers when she finally looked back at him. “Your life is in Rohan now.”

Lothíriel glanced down at her dark-haired nephew. Her eyes burned. She thrust Elboron back at Faramir, blinking rapidly. Her life _should_ be in Rohan, but what had she to show for it? She could not speak the language, no matter how her tutor urged her. She could not bear Rohan’s woven fabrics after a lifetime in silk, despite the oddity of her seaside fashions in the northern winter. She had borne no children, despite all of the (admittedly pleasant) nights spent in her husband’s bed.

At least here in Gondor, she _had_ things. She had a lifetime of living, of friendships—her brothers, her parents, her king and queen, her other nephew and niece even now growing taller in Dol Amroth. She looked like everyone else, from her dark hair and gray eyes down to the silk of her slippers. No sticking out like a sore thumb, not like at Meduseld.

“Maybe,” she finally answered. “But my heart is still in Gondor.”

“You would be better served to settle your heart in Rohan. You ought to try.”

“Haven’t I?” she snapped. She clenched her fists in her skirts and took a deep breath. “Faramir, it is not easy to leave everything you love and know they all go on without you. I sometimes think…” She paused, gauged his expression, and forged ahead. “I sometimes think it would be easier if they’d all vanish. Then I could better fix myself where I am. But with everyone still here…”

Faramir shifted Elboron to his other side and put an arm around her shoulders. “Come now, cos. They are all well, and all wishing for your happiness.”

“I _know_ ,” Lothíriel bit out. “But—”

“Having your whole family dead is not particularly pleasant, either,” Faramir said with deceptive mildness. His face was stern as he withdrew his arm.

“Well of course it’s not!” Lothíriel ran her hands down her neck and ground her teeth. “Faramir, I wish no one dead. I don’t wish that on anyone, not even the people who hate me. I wish only that I had the strength of purpose, the strength of _mind_ to take my mind away from everything I’ve left behind. I do try, I swear I do! But it feels like the whole of Rohan is conspiring against me loving it.”

“The people hate you?” Faramir asked.

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. Had he missed all she’d said? “Not _the people_ , Faramir, just some of them. And I understand why, truly! They think Éomer should have married a woman of his own people. They’d hate anyone from elsewhere. And it doesn’t help that Éomer neglects his own language so I can understand him, and—”

Faramir laughed.

Lothíriel stopped short. She drew herself up to her full height, still near a foot shorter than her cousin, and scowled. “What, pray, is so funny?” Faramir’s laughter died down and he grinned.

“Fond indeed! Éomer _is_ a good man. Even Éowyn mutters to herself in her own tongue.” Faramir smoothed her hair with a gentle hand, his smile soft. “Count yourself lucky, Lothíriel, and think how much worse it all could be.”

She blinked up at him. Worse? Aye, it could be worse. Given years more of the same, it would only be _worse_. What would they say of Éomer’s foreign, childless bride three years hence? Five years? Ten? Lothíriel tried to imagine another ten years in Rohan. Would Éomer’s hair be silvering by then? Hers would not be. Would she understand better all the whispers she heard? Ten years was a long time.

She pressed her hand against her stomach. If she had no children, would Éomer set her aside for another bride, one better suited to him?

Lothíriel looked away from her cousin and stared out at the Anduin. Éomer set her aside? She’d never thought of it before. Logically, she knew what a disaster it would be. Her father would be furious, and probably King Elessar too. Her marriage, more even than Faramir and Éowyn’s, was political. Yet all she felt at the notion was a dull ache in her gut. Maybe if Éomer set her free, she could come back home.

Would that be better or worse? She couldn’t tell.

Faramir put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back to the present. His eyes searched her face. “You’re as lucky as any of us, Lothíriel. Think on it, won’t you?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, to say that she _did_ think of it, and yet for all that nothing—no. Her words died in her throat as she met Faramir’s eyes. He sought her acquiescence more than anything. It was hardly his fault that she could not make him understand.

So Lothíriel put on a smile. “Yes, cousin. I shall.”


	3. "▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My father received word from Éomer King that you were expected,” Æmma said. “Please, come to us that we may sup you this evening. And Éomer King sent a letter for you—here.”
> 
> Æmma pulled a letter from her saddlebag and passed it to Lothíriel, who looked at Æmma, then the letter, in wonder. To go to Aldor’s keep would delay her return, perhaps by a day. Did Éomer regret her return?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155765884@N08/42129667582/in/dateposted-public/)

_Lothíriel of Rohan_  

. .

“My lady, there are riders approaching from west.”

Lothíriel drew herself from her reverie and peered ahead, but the guards maneuvering around her blocked her view. She and her escort emerged from the Firion wood before she could make out the approaching riders clearly.

A dozen men, one carrying the banner of Lord Aldor of the Fenmark, had stopped at a safe distance from the edge of the wood. A young woman with her yellow hair in a braided crown rode emerged from among them. Her dress was red, and gems hung from her ears; a lady, then. Lothíriel blinked. That was Lord Aldor’s daughter. She had not seen Lady Æmma in over a year, and she certainly hadn’t expected to see her today. Aldor’s keep was some miles north of the Great West Road; why was Æmma here now?

“Stand down,” Lothíriel told her guards. “Bordon, Garr, with me.” The two guards flanked her as she rode ahead to meet Æmma.

“Westú Lothíriel hal,” Æmma called.

“Ƿes hāl, Æmma,” Lothíriel said. She drew her horse closer to Æmma’s with a smile and switched to Westron. “What brings you here? I hope you are well.”

“My father received word from Éomer King that you were expected,” Æmma said. “Please, come to us that we may sup you this evening. And Éomer King sent a letter for you—here.”

Æmma pulled a letter from her saddlebag and passed it to Lothíriel, who looked at Æmma, then the letter, in wonder. To go to Aldor’s keep would delay her return, perhaps by a day. Did Éomer regret her return?

No, he couldn’t. Éomer would not have summoned her home if he was going to regret it. Her husband must be thinking of her comfort. Lothíriel shook her anxiety away. She and Éomer might not be to each other what Faramir and Éowyn were, but their fondness was no small thing. Éomer cared for her. No need for grim thoughts. Besides, Æmma was friendly, and a night in a proper home would be a blessing after a week on the road.

Lothíriel tucked Éomer’s letter into her belt. “I thank you,” she said to Æmma. “We shall be honored to visit you.” She nodded at Bordon, the guard beside her, who motioned to the rest of her escort to fall in with Æmma’s. Within minutes, they were on the road north to Aldor’s keep.

“How fares Stoningland, Lothíriel Cwén?” Æmma asked. “And my lady Éowyn?”

“Gondor fares well,” Lothíriel said, though inside she bristled. Æmma had not bothered to ask how _she_ was. But she forced a smile. “And Éowyn is her same self. How are things in the Fenmark? How are your parents?”

“They are well, thank you!” Æmma’s bright smile lit her pretty face like a beacon. “My father seeks to improve the road through the Firien wood, but I am sure he will tell all over dinner. And my lady mother is hoping to build a waystation at the crossroads, when my father’s plan is taken up.”

“When?” Lothíriel smiled gently, and Æmma laughed.

“Forgive my presumption, but my father is rarely forestalled. Of course, we shall abide by Éomer King’s wisdom.”

“I look forward to hearing more,” Lothíriel said. She ran a finger along the crease in Éomer’s letter, still tucked into her belt. Æmma’s indulgent smile brought heat to her cheeks.

“I will let you read your letter,” Æmma said, and nudged her horse a little away.

Lothíriel bit her lip to contain her smile. Æmma was just like Arwen and Éowyn—no doubt she was as interested in a letter from Éomer as they had been. Valar willing, the contents would be less distressing. It would not do to cry on the open road. 

> _Éomer King to Lothíriel, his lovely and excellent wife—his greetings and fondest wishes for your health and journey._
> 
> _I have forewarned Lord Aldor of the Fenmark of your arrival. I have asked that he send his daughter Æmma to greet you and deliver this note; I pray that you have received it by her kind hand. The council has been overlain by news from Dunland, and thus I would ask your indulgence to learn more of Lord Aldor’s wishes in regards to what I wrote before. No doubt he shall ply your ear; listen as best you can, and promise nothing. That is my wish—I know you shall exceed it. Having your wisdom will add confidence to my decision._
> 
> _Cousin Sefa has been to visit Aldburg with Eofor, but she has returned to her post at Meduseld and awaits your return. Lord Erkenbrand sends word of the dwarven surveyor’s wonder at the Glittering Caves. I know not what will come of this interest, but the Mark will be the better for any dwarven craftsmen we can lure here._
> 
> _Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence. _▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇__
> 
> _Farewell._
> 
> _(Edoras, 15 May, F.A. 1.)_

Lothíriel screwed up her face in confusion. Éomer had blotted his final sentence beyond understanding. Lothíriel tilted the parchment, held it up to the light, but no sense could be made of it. And it wasn’t a spill—it was too deliberate for that, too regular.

Éomer had never done anything like this before. He’d never even misspelled a word—how could he have made such an error that he felt the need to blot out a full sentence? He hadn’t even tried to say it better. Just… _Farewell._ It was so unlike him that Lothíriel’s gut cramped in worry. How to make sense of it?

Lothíriel gnawed her lip as she folded the letter slowly and tucked it back into her belt. She fixed herself firmer in the saddle and took up her reins. Æmma rejoined her and struck up a light conversation that Lothíriel only half attended to. Did Æmma notice her rudeness? Lothíriel could barely think of it. Her mind was with her husband.

Another cramp shot through her belly, and Lothíriel pressed a hand to the flat front of her dress with a wince. The pain was familiar. This was not simple worry.

“Are you well, my queen?” Æmma asked.

“I am, I am,” Lothíriel blurted. She pasted a smile on her face despite the gnawing pain. “It’s nothing… irregular.” Æmma nodded, her face carefully serene, but Lothíriel knew she’d understood. Soon, the whole country would know their queen was still without child.

Valar help them if Éomer was ill.

 

* * *

 

Éomer was _not_ ill. So said the courier from Edoras, who had seen him not four days past. Lothíriel thanked the man and sent him away. She paced in her room, her frown deepening, until her maid came in with a fresh-pressed gown for dinner.

Lothíriel could barely eat, her concern, cramps, and exhaustion caught up so that she could barely attend to conversation. Éomer’s request for more information from Lord Aldor would have to wait until morning. Lothíriel excused herself early and lay curled in bed, waiting for the inevitable. A moss-filled pad waited to soak up the blood from between her legs; the downy pillows waited to soak up her tears.

Éomer might not be ill, but something was surely wrong, and Lothíriel couldn’t do a blessed thing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are exactly the correct number of ▇'s in that blotted line to cover what was originally written there, including spaces and punctuation. #dedication
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you are having a wonderful day xoxo


	4. Hálette Lothíriel Cwén

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small crowd stood on the terrace to welcome her. There was Sefa, one of Lothíriel’s ladies—Éomer’s newly betrothed cousin. Beside Sefa stood Eadburga, the housekeeper, with a welcome cup. Lothíriel blinked; she hadn’t expected a welcome cup. She had often welcomed Éomer home with one, but she’d not expected one for herself.

Lothíriel sighed as she urged her horse the final few yards into Meduseld’s courtyard. The golden glint of her husband’s hall was a welcome sight as her destination, but the rustic wooden walls were a far cry from the marble towers of Minas Tirith. Still, she did her best to appreciate it. Meduseld had a rich history, and the carved columns were a testament to the Rohirrim’s skill. And for all that she felt out of place here, this was her hall.

A small crowd stood on the terrace to welcome her. There was Sefa, one of Lothíriel’s ladies—Éomer’s newly betrothed cousin. Beside Sefa stood Eadburga, the housekeeper, with a welcome cup. Lothíriel blinked; she hadn’t expected a welcome cup. She had often welcomed Éomer home with one, but she’d not expected one for herself.

Éomer stood before them all, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across the courtyard. His yellow hair glinted in the sun, and his eyes and smile widened when she was close enough to met his gaze. For all she’d worried for his health after that last letter, he looked happy and hale. Perhaps that blotted line had just been an idle mistake after all.

The guards and standard-bearer ahead of her dismounted. A groom rushed forward to grab her horse’s reins, and Lothíriel dismounted with a grunt. After a week in the saddle, she could only muster so much grace. But it was a relief to be back on solid ground for good. She patted her mare’s neck, smoothed her skirts, and made her way up the terrace steps.

“Westú Lothíriel hal,” Eadburga said. She passed Lothíriel the welcome cup, and Lothíriel drank deep. The ale was rich and fruity; how long had it been since she’d drunk from Meduseld’s casks?

“Thank you, Eadburga,” she said, handing back the cup. She swallowed. At last, she turned to her husband.

Éomer loomed over her with shining eyes and poorly concealed joy. His beard had grown longer, and there were new beads in his braids.

“Welcome home, Lothíriel.” Éomer took her hands and kissed them, eyes closed briefly with something like relief. “You were much missed.” He stepped back, still holding her hands, and looked her over. “You look well.”

“Hail Éomer King,” Lothíriel replied. She awkwardly squeezed her husband’s hands. She’d never seen him so discomposed. Had he really missed her so much?

Éomer tucked her hands around his elbow and tugged her towards the door. Still unsteady from the journey, Lothíriel wobbled on her jellied legs. Éomer stopped short.

“Sorry,” he said with a blush. “Only—there is a council meeting right now.”

“Oh, you should go back!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “I am well. Sefa will have me sorted out by dinnertime, I’m sure.” She disentangled herself from her husband and smiled at Sefa. “My congratulations on your betrothal, Sefa,” she added. “I wish you all happiness.”

Sefa, tall and long-faced, ducked her chin. “Thank you, my lady.” She glanced behind Lothíriel—Éomer was still there, hovering in his looming way.

“Go to your council,” Lothíriel urged. “I am fine.”

“Truly?” Éomer said. His blue eyes bore into her.

“Yes,” she said firmly. She took Éomer again by the elbow and steered him to the door. “There’s no cause for delay, my lord.”

“Is there not?” he murmured. Lothíriel glanced up with a frown, but Éomer’s soft smile convinced her he wasn’t actually concerned. And why should he be? The ride from Minas Tirith was long, but the road was well-maintained, and her escort befitted her status as queen. There was no cause for alarm, and certainly no cause for the king of Rohan to abandon his duties.

Lothíriel gestured for the doorward to open Meduseld. Sunlight spilled into the hall, and she pushed Éomer ahead of her. “To your council, Éomer King.”

Éomer stumbled from the force of her shove. Ignoring Sefa’s stifled giggles, he turned and bowed low to her. “My wife has come home, and I am the better for it,” he said. He spun on his heel and headed to the council chamber, leaving Lothíriel quite bemused. Surely he was no better off now than before. He wouldn’t have missed any of his council if he hadn’t felt the need to greet her.

A touch on the elbow made Lothíriel jump. It was only Sefa, who had finally gotten over her laughter.

“Come, my queen,” Sefa said. “Let’s get you unpacked.”

 

* * *

 

Éomer raised a toast at dinner that evening, and the whole hall chanted _hálette Lothíriel Cwén_ ¹ after him. Lothíriel’s cheeks warmed and she inclined her head with what dignity she could muster. The language of Rohan did not come easy to her—she doubted she would ever understand it completely. Though her husband was gracious enough to only use Rohirric in her presence when addressing a crowd, as now, she knew that many in the sea of smiling faces before her whispered behind her back of her refusal to adopt her new home’s customs and speech.

At least she could ride well. No one could deny she was fit enough in the saddle to be the queen of the horse-lords, even if they called her a snobbish foreigner.

Lothíriel took a too-large sip of wine and coughed as Éomer sat back beside her. He turned quickly and place a large hand on her back.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin and took up her knife. “I’m well, Éomer. You should eat.”

He slowly removed his hand from her back. Despite the layers of her dress, heat from his touch lingered on her skin, and her eyes followed his hand as he gripped the hilt of his knife. Éomer’s hands were large, with the veins under his skin evidence of his strength. Her own hands stilled as she watched him cut his meat. His careless, bold slices were different from her precise ones—a fair representation of their personalities, she supposed. Lothíriel glanced at her husband’s face to find him watching her. His intense gaze brought heat to her face.

“So, Lothíriel Cwén,” Marshal Elfhelm said from beside her, and Lothíriel flinched and turned to him with a smile. “How fares Lady Éowyn and her son?”

“Very well,” she answered. “Elboron is still small for his age, but he is a bright boy. He learns to walk. And Éowyn is in good spirits.”

Elfhelm sighed and took a swig of ale. “Aye, ‘tis a pity she left us. Gondor’s lucky to have her.”

“Indeed.” Lothíriel took a deliberate bite, silencing any further conversation.

Inwardly, she bristled. She’d heard many such comments, yet they still needled her. Their grief at Éowyn’s departure could never be eased by _her_ , or so they seemed to say. It did not matter how well she managed the hall, or how solicitous she was of her king’s needs. Her accomplishments in Rohan meant nothing next to the love her husband’s people bore for their absent White Lady. None here would ever love her half so well. She must content herself with her duty, and nothing more.

Lothíriel straightened her posture and listened as Éomer spoke with the councilor to his other side. Apparently Lord Aldor’s proposal for improving the Great West Road was already being discussed. Lothíriel wished she’d had a chance to share her thoughts with Éomer, but he’d been ensconced in council matters all afternoon.

“I have not fully formed an opinion,” Éomer was saying. “I support any notion that gives advantage to our merchants, but the increased tolls may not be looked upon favorably.”

“When are they ever?” his councilor remarked. “But those who wear the road ought to pay for its upkeep.”

“So Lord Aldor says,” Éomer said. “I’m anxious to hear more.” He sat back and glanced at Lothíriel, who gave him a slight smile. Hedging bets was a trick _she’d_ taught him, back during their betrothal. Perhaps it wasn’t quite the Rohirric thing to do, what with their famous forthrightness, but there were all sorts of ways to speak the truth without insulting anyone. And Éomer had insulted more than a few proud lords with his bluntness in the first year of his reign.

Of course, all of them ate out of his hand now. He’d grown more adept, more confident in the past two years since their troth plighting. Éomer had always had strength and assurance as a military man—helpful indeed in the recent campaigns to clear the hills around Isengard of the enemy—but for all his smooth words, diplomacy among his own people had been a cause of some concern. But time had worked its magic. Time, and Éomer’s own skills. Whatever his anxieties, he had risen high above them.

Not so Lothíriel.

Even now, seated on the dais with her husband at her side and a golden circlet on her brow, she still felt out of place. A year ago, she would have longed to be back in Gondor, but ever since she’d received Éomer’s letter summoning her back to Rohan, her old country lent her only cold comfort. Éomer’s letter and Faramir’s words had been in essence the same: no matter how much she wished it, Gondor was not her home anymore. No, her mind was full of Rohan, Rohan, where she was the stranger still.

With a grimace, Lothíriel set down her knife and leaned back in her chair. Her legs were sore. What with all of the unpacking and being brought up-to-date in regards to the household, she’d had no rest this afternoon. And twisting her ankles under the table was doing nothing to relieve the pain. Lothíriel sighed and pushed her plate back.

“You’re tired,” Éomer murmured. His voice was nearly lost within the noise of the assembled crowd.

“Hm? I suppose so.” Lothíriel smiled tightly, still staring at her plate.

“Lothíriel.”

Éomer put his hand on her wrist; Lothíriel turned to look at him. He did not smile, but there was a question in his eyes. She shook her head minutely.

_Not here_.

Éomer looked at her a moment longer, and then he leaned across the arm of her chair to kiss her cheek. “Go rest if you need it. I won’t be long.”

Lothíriel lifted her hand to her cheek, surprised, but she took her leave of Elfhelm beside her and rose to leave. Sefa followed her out of the hall.

Though she was bone-weary, one thought would not leave her be. Éomer had never before been in the habit of showing her such affection in public. Their relationship was cordial. His cousins and friends received more public endearments than she ever had. Éomer’s tenderness towards her was confined to their chamber.

Or at least, it had been.

What had changed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹ “hálette Lothíriel Cwén” hail Lothíriel Queen (Old English approximate translation)


	5. "and your Éomer also"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She set aside Amrothos’s letter and opened her correspondence box to fish out Éomer’s last letter. There it was, with the last line blotted out. The hidden words were unreadable even when Lothíriel held the letter up to the sunlight just beginning to peep through the slotted windows. 
> 
> From their bed, Éomer groaned. “Lothíriel?”
> 
> Lothíriel flinched and drew the letter against her chest, suddenly ashamed. If Éomer wanted her to know what he’d said, he would tell her. Who was she to demand more of him than he was willing to give?

 [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155765884@N08/42236442482/in/dateposted-public/)

_Éomer and Lothíriel of the Mark_

. .

Bit by bit, Lothíriel woke. Faint, pre-dawn light filtered in through the gaps in the curtains round the bed. The room was silent save for her own breathing, and her husband’s.

Éomer lay on his side facing her, his hand clasped around her wrist. She dimly recalled him coming in last night, but he had not disturbed her except to kiss her brow. Sleep had reclaimed her before she could remember to ask…

What did she want to ask? She couldn’t remember.

Lothíriel wriggled her hand free from Éomer’s lax grip and tugged her loose hair from under his shoulder. She slipped through the curtain, into the coolness of the morning. Though Rohan’s summer days grew hot by the afternoon, nighttime’s chill lingered in Meduseld until July. But it was only June now. She pulled on a robe left folded on her chair, and settled down to read the letters that had come to Rohan while she was away.

Yesterday, Lothíriel had put the letters she’d received during her sojourn in her locked correspondence box. No one had the key to that box but her, and she kept the key on her own belt. Not even Éomer had been inside that box. She supposed other husbands might have wondered, but Éomer had too much honor—not to mention too much respect for her father—to express curiosity. She did tell him who wrote to her, and generally what they said… but she could not remember ever showing a letter to him. The ideas were not sacred, but words had always been.

Perhaps that was why she was so surprised when Éomer had blotted out a line in his last letter. He’d deprived her of something. She wondered now what else he’d left out.

Lothíriel glanced back to the bed, but the curtains hid Éomer from view. She sighed and turned to her work. An apologetic note from one of her ladies, who had gone to visit family in the Eastfold and would be back next week—not a promising beginning, but at least it required no response. She was more heartened to see a letter from her brother Amrothos toward the bottom of the pile, and she opened it at once, tossing the unbroken seal into her glass jar. 

 

> _To his sister Lothíriel, Amrothos of Dol Amroth._
> 
> _Gondor was blessed to have your visit, and my gratitude when I think of my days spent in your company is great. I pray that you have arrived home safely, that your way was smooth and swift, and that you reunited with your good husband._
> 
> _I must confess, dear sister, that I have been_ _quite_ _penitent for not voicing my thoughts more clearly when you still remained in Minas Tirith. In truth, I find I was revived greatly by your sweetness and wit, and now I seek your approval to mount a visit to Rohan. My heart is warmed at the hope of seeing you again so soon, and your Éomer also._
> 
> _I beseech you to welcome me to your cooler borders—the king’s astronomers predict a scorching summer. I am_ _not_ _keen to return to Dol Amroth at present, as our dear father has determined that my willful nature would best be tempered by a fierce wife. Any kindness on your part would mean the world to me, for no lady can tempt_ _me_ _._
> 
> _No more to you now, dear sister, but may the Valar grant you many blessings and_ _good luck_ _in all your endeavors._
> 
> _Written 24 May, under the light of Varda’s blessed stars—and some pretty beeswax candles._

Lothíriel smiled and tucked up her feet. Amrothos was a vivacious speaker, and his letters always carried more of his manners than most others managed. She could hear his voice in her mind, his cadence and rhythm. He’d gesture here, and here. She hovered her finger over the places she could sense Amrothos most clearly.

She’d taken no more comfort in Gondor after Éomer’s summons, and she could foresee none in her future after Faramir’s remonstrations, but Amrothos to come to Rohan? That would be comfort indeed. _He_ would ask after her health, _he_ would think on her before Éowyn. In her brother’s heart, at least, she would be foremost.

Lothíriel glanced back at the bed, Amrothos’s letter dangling now from her drooping fingers. Éomer had been so different yesterday. He’d behaved so contrary to their long-built habits. They’d eased into a kind pattern together, but last night he’d shattered her expectations. In truth, it had started when he’d blotted out that letter he’d sent her on the road.

She set aside Amrothos’s letter and opened her correspondence box to fish out Éomer’s last letter. There it was, with the last line blotted out. The hidden words were unreadable even when Lothíriel held the letter up to the sunlight just beginning to peep through the slotted windows.

From their bed, Éomer groaned. “Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel flinched and drew the letter against her chest, suddenly ashamed. If Éomer wanted her to know what he’d said, he would tell her. Who was she to demand more of him than he was willing to give? When had she ever volunteered more than Éomer had asked? She’d not told him of her grief at the loss of her home, her enduring jealousy of the Rohirrim’s preference for absent Éowyn, or her great unspoken fear that after all this time, she had yet to fulfill her most vital charge as Éomer’s queen. Her stomach clenched, and she stuffed Éomer’s letter back into her correspondence box.

“I’m coming,” Lothíriel said, voice low. She locked the box of letters, leaving Éomer’s crumpled atop the others, and padded back to bed. Éomer pushed the curtains aside as she approached, and he greeted her with a sleepy smile and outstretched hand.

“My wife,” he murmured as she climbed back into bed. He drew her close and buried his face in her loose hair. “Welcome home.”

Lothíriel wound an arm around his waist and sighed against his shoulder. “I’ve been home since yesterday.”

“But not here.” Éomer tightened his arms around her.

She could not miss his meaning—he meant here in his embrace, not here in Meduseld. Éomer rubbed circles on her back, comforting and familiar. Lothíriel closed her eyes and relaxed in her husband’s arms. Whether he meant it or not—and how could he?—his hold was a balm for all the things she’d never told him. Lying like this, it was almost possible to forget everything that plagued her.

“Lothíriel?”

“Hm?”

Éomer shifted until he could look at her properly, and Lothíriel blinked up at him. His face was pinched, and she at once reached up to feel his forehead. “Are you alright?”

He let out a little laugh and leaned into her touch. “I’m well, I’m well.”

Lothíriel drew her hand back with a frown. No one who was truly well had such a drawn look, but she did not press him. She only looked at him with clearer eyes than before. He looked tired, too—had he not been sleeping well?

Éomer squirmed under her scrutiny. He sat up and pushed his hair back from his face. He began to braid it over his shoulder, not quite meeting her eye. “Your travels went well? You had some reprieve at Lord Aldor’s?”

“Some,” she answered, thinking of the blotted letter. She scooted away from Éomer to sit against the carved headboard. “They were most courteous. His daughter is charming, and his wife told me about his proposal for the Great West Road.” Éomer hummed encouragingly; Lothíriel continued with more confidence. “It seems a sound enough proposal. They would build a waystation, if the plan is taken up.”

“All profit for them, I imagine,” Éomer murmured.

“Well, that is yet to be determined.” Lothíriel pulled her hair over her shoulder and brushed her fingers through the tangled waves. “It _is_ a good plan, but you can set the terms, so long as your council agrees. I would take care not to offend Lord Aldor,” she mused, “for he is proud. But I suspect he will not be offended if you can come to a fair arrangement.” She glanced at Éomer; he gazed at her with a soft, tired smile. “What?”

“I’m grateful,” Éomer said. “You needn’t have done so much.”

Lothíriel shifted awkwardly and clutched her toes. “I only did as you asked. I’m sorry I could not tell you before the council took the matter up.”

“It’s no matter,” Éomer assured her. He stretched out his legs, the smile lingering on his face, but soon his good humor faded and he looked more like the sick, drawn figure of minutes before.

What was the matter with him? She’d tried to ask, and he wouldn’t answer. Lothíriel couldn’t bear to see him look so unwell, not when she couldn’t do a thing about it. There was no point in asking again; he did not deserve an interrogation when he plainly wished to be left alone. She shimmied out of her robe, dropped it over the side of the bed, and slid back under the covers, facing Éomer, but with her eyes closed.

“You’re not unwell, I hope?” Éomer asked.

Lothíriel opened her eyes and looked up at her husband. “No, Éomer. I am well enough.”

Éomer stared down at her, brows creasing as unreadable emotions warred in his face. After a moment he sighed and looked away. “I wanted…” He trailed off, glanced at her, and bit his lip. “Lothíriel…”

She sat up and brushed her hair back from her eyes. Panic began to coil in her gut as Éomer fiddled with the blanket without a trace of a smile. Was this the moment he finally realized his mistake? “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I do not know how to tell you,” he admitted. His blue eyes fixed on hers at last. “I—I love you, Lothíriel.”

The air drained from Lothíriel’s lungs. She stared at her husband, eyes wide. “What?”

Éomer shifted uncomfortably and wrapped his long arms around his knees. His cheeks were tinged pink above his beard. “I meant to tell you last night. I meant to tell you in my last letter.” He shook his head. “I should have known sooner, but—”

“You _love_ me?” Lothíriel interrupted. Éomer nodded, his brow quirked cautiously. “How… I mean, I… Éomer, what happened?”

“I missed you,” he said plainly. He spread his hands open, baring himself like a supplicant. “You were gone, and I did not know what you took with you when you left. But you have it now.” He reached out and drew her hand to his heart. “I’ve always thought myself lucky to have such a good woman for my wife. But I did not think I would miss you beyond reason. I did not think your absence would be torture—” Éomer squeezed shut his eyes. “But it was.”

Lothíriel’s breath caught and tears sprang to her eyes. Éomer’s heartbeat was quick but steady under her hand, as steady as his gaze when he opened his eyes. He took his hand from hers and cupped her face. She kept her hand on his heart; he brushed the falling tears from her cheeks.

“I never meant to cause you pain,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Lothíriel.”

She bit her lip. Wasn’t it?

“Tell me more,” she dared. Éomer’s eyes widened, but he nodded.

“I always admired you,” he began. “You came here, alone, to be my wife. You never faltered; you never gave in. I drew strength from you, and wisdom too.” He smiled and gave a little laugh. “Even just now, with Aldor’s plans. You’ve always done all I’ve wanted, and then some.”

Lothíriel hiccoughed and gave a shaky smile back. He took her hands again and rubbed circles on the backs of her palms.

“But when you were gone, I felt such grief as the days and weeks passed. If my feelings for you ever were mere admiration, it’s far past that now. I cannot do without you, Lothíriel. I love you.”

Lothíriel’s eyes slid shut. Éomer’s words settled over her like an embrace. One last tear dropped from her lashes. Éomer kissed it as it hovered on her cheek, and then he drew a little back, waited until she nodded her permission, and kissed her gently. She could taste her tears on his lips.

“My love,” he murmured.

Lothíriel’s heart swelled. Now it all made sense—his public affection, his uncertainty, the blotted letter. Her husband loved her, and he had been afraid. But he need not have been.

A little laugh bubbled up inside her. Éomer loved her, and she loved him! The suddenness of her realization was no less shocking than it was a relief. She, too, had been afraid—too afraid even to admit her feelings to herself. She had always known he was a good man, and he’d always been kind to her. He had never done anything to cause her alarm, but she’d buried her feelings as she always did. Thank the blessed Valar that Éomer had had the courage to speak! Whatever her other woes, she could support them now. Lothíriel wound her arms around Éomer’s neck and shifted until she was straddling his lap. Éomer wrapped an arm around her waist and smiled against her mouth.

“My love,” he repeated.

“My love,” she answered, and then they did not speak again for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that letter in chapter 3 that Éomer blotted out? Well, I can now reveal what he had originally written: "I long for your return."
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! There is more to come :-) I hope you're having a wonderful day!


	6. "Fare you as I do"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whispered words of the maids broke through her reverie, and Lothíriel sat up at once, back stiff. Though she rarely spoke it, she understood enough Rohirric to catch their meaning, and it chilled her to the bone.
> 
> “It’s been enough weeks,” the younger one muttered. “Do you think…?”
> 
> “It’s possible. No blood… I’m no midwife, but she’s been regular all along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is self-harm featured in this chapter.

Four weeks passed with more bliss than Lothíriel could have imagined the month before. In the basking glow of their mutual tenderness, all other problems faded away. What did it matter if others spoke as often of Éowyn as they did of her, or if she still had to ask for clarification about some Rohirric phrase or other? As long as Éomer bestowed on her his warm smiles and sweet kisses, Lothíriel felt she could bear anything. Even when news came that Amrothos’s visit would be delayed, Lothíriel only smiled and wrote, _I will be glad to see you when you_ _do_ _come_. Knowing that she could survive even that disappointment with little more than a laughing shrug—“He always did run late for everything,” she told Éomer—left her as powerful as she’d ever felt.

Rohan’s midsummer festival, Sunstede, passed with the same fanfare Lothíriel remembered from the year before. A great bonfire burned brightly before Meduseld, and from their seat on the terrace, Lothíriel spotted other bonfires across the darkening horizon. Sefa pointed to each light in the distance and named the corresponding hamlets. Éomer simply smiled, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of her hand. That night, Lothíriel remembered Éowyn’s bold declaration that she should be with Éomer on Sunstede, and she grinned down at Éomer in the dark as she rolled her hips against his, her hands pressed against his bare chest.

Once they had both recovered and cleaned, Lothíriel settled into Éomer’s warm side and nuzzled his shoulder. He traced his customary circles on her shoulder blade and hummed a bonfire song; she could not remember the words, but she hummed along at the chorus. When it was over, Éomer drew back a little to look down at her.

“You’re happy?”

She propped herself up on her elbow and stroked Éomer’s cheek. “Of course I am, love. I have you.” She dipped her head to press a kiss to his temple, then his lips. He smiled as she drew back.

“You seem happier,” he said. “Than you were before you left, I mean.”

Lothíriel froze. “I… I didn’t mean to seem unhappy.” Her stomach twisted with anxious pangs. How could she have let herself get so carried away? If she’d only done better, done as she _ought_ , Éomer would never have known that she was unhappy. He didn’t deserve to suffer her burdens. Why was she so thoughtless?

“Not unhappy,” Éomer clarified. Lothíriel relaxed slightly and tucked herself back into the crook of Éomer’s arm. “I only meant that your current joy has left me doubly blessed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your joy bolsters mine, and my spirits are soothed to know you are happy. A happy arrangement, I think.” He kissed her playfully, and Lothíriel laughed into his kiss, all anxiety forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Now it was a sunny morning a week into July. Lothíriel was at her desk, reviewing her correspondence. Amrothos had written again; he was due within the week. Lothíriel was less desperate for her brother than she had been at first, but she still eagerly anticipated his arrival.

Other letters had come too. She had yet to read a thick bundle from her family in Dol Amroth, a short letter from Queen Arwen, and an even shorter missive from Éowyn. She had just cracked the seal of Éowyn’s note when two maids came in to change the linens. They paused to curtsey and began their work. Lothíriel turned back to her letter.

> _To Lothíriel of the Mark, from Éowyn of Émyn Arnen._
> 
> _I write in hopes that you are well and that your midsummer passed with ease in my brother’s company. All blessings for you and Éomer. I write to share the happy news that Faramir and I expect a second child next year. The physician declares that I have passed the most dangerous stage, and that all seems well, Béma be praised. I have written also to Éomer, to better share my joy. Fare you as I do—blissful and blessed!_
> 
> _(Emyn Arnen, 16 June, F.A. 1.)_

Lothíriel’s smile—another baby in the family!—was short-lived. Éowyn’s final sentence was a barb, an unnecessary one. Did she know what pain she caused? No, Lothíriel did not believe her capable of such. And yet the blatant expectation was still there, hidden in plain sight. Lothíriel folded Éowyn’s letter and prepared a fresh piece of parchment for her reply. She must reply, and better to do it now, so she could hide the letter and its implications away. She sat back in her chair, trying to think of an appropriate salutation. The whispered words of the maids broke through her reverie, and Lothíriel sat up at once, back stiff. Though she rarely spoke it, she understood enough Rohirric to catch their meaning, and it chilled her to the bone.

“It’s been enough weeks,” the younger one muttered. “Do you think…?”

“It’s possible. No blood… I’m no midwife, but she’s been regular all along.”

They trailed off, and a speculative silence fell across the room. The maids tossed the used linens in the basket and remade the bed. Lothíriel sat unmoving at her desk, quill dangling from limp fingers. Once the maids had left, she dropped the quill and crossed the room in long steps to the door.

Lothíriel pressed her head against the door, her eyes wide and unseeing as she counted back the weeks. She had been home… four weeks? Five? With fumbling hands, she latched the door. She staggered to the bed and curled into a ball with her arms tight against her chest. The silk coverlet was cool against her cheek. Cool like a sea-breeze; cool like Dol Amroth.

What did it matter when she’d come home? If a maid had noticed—a maid! A maid had noticed before her!—it had been long enough. Speculation was pointless.

She pressed a hand against her belly. All she felt was the stiffness of her kirtle beneath her dress. The lacing was the same as ever; the kirtle fit her perfectly. Her body was still the same in every respect. How could she be…?

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes closed and rubbed her damp cheeks against the coverlet. She couldn’t even say it in her mind. She thought back on all she’d heard of this moment. Her mother had spoken of joy; Lothíriel remembered for herself how delighted Elphir’s wife had been when she realized her… her _condition_ , back before Alphros was born. Other women had talked about it, too. Some had mentioned nausea and tenderness, but Lothíriel wasn’t nauseous. She was afraid.

No one had ever mentioned fear.

How could it be true if she was so afraid? Wasn’t this supposed to be a happy moment? Éomer would be happy, if it were true.

Lothíriel sat up too quickly, and her vision swam. She blinked back tears. If it were true? Who could tell so soon? If a maid had made a comment of it in _her_ presence, even under the mistaken impression that she could not understand their tongue, someone would no doubt say something to Éomer.

He’d be delighted. The whole of Rohan would be delighted—

But what if it wasn’t true? What if the maid was mistaken? And even if it was true, what if something went wrong? Éowyn had written of _the most dangerous stage…_ Lothíriel pressed her hands against her stomach. She tried to imagine Éomer’s face. How would it feel for him to know such joy, and then have it snatched away? She couldn’t picture how he’d look. Just trying left pangs in her heart.

She couldn’t put him through that.

Lothíriel glanced at the door—it was still locked—before going to the chest of drawers by the privy door. She pulled out a moss-filled linen pad, a pair of short trousers to keep it in place, and an extra length of linen. She closed the chest and sat back on her heels. Where was her knife? Ah, yes, the desk. She sprang to her feet, provisions in hand, and went to sit at the desk.

The mossy pad was slightly stained; in truth, Lothíriel ought to have scolded the laundress responsible. But for her current purpose, the imperfection was a blessing. She slid the knife free of its sheath and tilted it so it caught the light from the windows.

Where to cut?

Either hand was impossible. Too visible, too painful. Her arms… were still too visible. Éomer would see it. He’d see anything—well, no. When she had her courses, they weren’t intimate. But her shift only covered her arms, and eventually the charade would have to end, and then he’d see it anyway, and wonder.

Perhaps she _could_ cut somewhere immediately visible, her hand or wrist, perhaps, and pretend it was an accident. Yes, that seemed sensible. Use the blood for her own purpose, and then get it seen to. No one would question it then. And if she had to reopen it—well, such things happened. Éomer had come home from sorties against some enemy with a wound twice, and each time he’d reopened it within a day of his return. Surely a cut on the hand was no different.

Lothíriel flattened the pad on the desk and positioned her left hand just over the stain. She went to pick up the knife, but paused. Her hand was trembling. She pressed her hand to her chest and took a deep breath, then another, until she was still and calm. Then she swiftly took up the knife and pressed it into her palm.

“ _Rhaich!_ ” she swore. The pain was sharp, intense—the blade bit into her skin like fire. Blood welled up around the blade but did not drip. Lothíriel blinked back tears and pressed harder. Her hand shook, and she quickly pulled back and dropped the knife.

Blood oozed freely from her palm and tears from her eyes. Lothíriel hunched over the desk with her teeth clenched together; she carefully maneuvered her hand so her blood landed in a single puddle on the pad. The pain throbbed with her heartbeat.

Before long, her hand was shaking too badly to manage. Thankfully, she had never been cursed with heavy courses, and so what she’d achieved seemed a reasonable start. Lothíriel wound the fresh bandage around her hand. She should have gotten a poultice, but it would have to wait until she was ready.

Getting everything arranged was difficult with a hand she could barely move, but within five minutes Lothíriel had sent a servant running for the healer. She sat heavily on her bed, her good hand clasped loosely around her bleeding palm, and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was originally posted on Tumblr.
> 
> Éomer's letter to Lothíriel is inspired by medieval letters; specifically, by a letter written in 1098 from Stephen, Count of Blois and Chartres to his wife, Adele, during the 1st Crusade. There's an excellent bunch of medieval letters and missives available from DragonBear History that I highly recommend! So different from what we're used to. 
> 
>  
> 
> ¹ Sunstede: June 25. Rohirric Midsummer festival. Roughly translates to “sun standing still.” (My own invention :3) Modraniht in Anglo-Saxon times was celebrated the eve of Yule, but I adapted it as Rohan's springtime festival during the spring equinox, roughly nine months after midsummer. I'm happy to give more info if anyone's interested in my headcanons!


End file.
